The Bringer of War

The deer carcass lay stinking in the sun, ripped from gullet to groin. Hector turned his head away from the glistening, sticky mess and gagged audibly. Bruno seemed unaffected by the pungent aroma, crouching down next to the corpse and scrutinizing it with his grim umbra gaze.

“Wolves, do you think?” said Hector, pulling hard on the reins as his mule flicked its head nervously.

“No,” said Bruno, not looking up from his examinations. “Wolves eat what they kill. All of the choicest meat is still here. Whatever slew this hart, did so for the sheer joy of slaughter.”

Hector shivered a bit, despite the heat.

“Heathens, then?” he said. “Sacrificed the beast to their dark gods?”

Bruno shook his head, daring to reach out and touch the corpse. He scanned around the vicinity, his brow coming low over his eyes.

“No flies,” he said “they should be crawling all over this body.”

Hector began to look panicked.

“Dragon!” he blurted, his head whipping about to and fro in a frantic search for the beast he had just named.

“Calm down, Squire,” said Bruno with a grim chuckle.

“But, Sir Cromwell,” said Hector, eyes going wide “dragons are fell beasts of the Adversary! High Cardinal Rutledge once said-”

“Seek you to school me on Templar history, boy?” said Bruno harshly. “I’ve seen dragons before. Fought them and slain them. Their blood is as red as any beast’s, and if you poke enough holes in them it all runs out and they die. Simple as that.”

Hector visibly composed himself, his voice losing most of the traces of panic.

“What are we to do?” said Hector. “We have to way of sending a message from out here in the wilds.”

“Message?” said Bruno as if the idea were particularly ignorant.

“So the King may dispatch a dragon slayer-”

“Bah!” said Bruno with a violent downward wave of his arm. “Swindlers, one and all. Most of the beasts they ‘slay’ are not even dragons at all! We can handle this, squire.”

“But,” said Hector, laying about himself for something to dissuade his lord “but we have no way of tracking the beast! Surely, it has flown far from-”

“I’ve seen a dozen dragons, boy,” said Bruno in a low growl “and I have never known one to fly, or breathe fire, or demand a virginal sacrifice from a tiny village. They are dangerous beasts, to be sure, and one is more than a match for any lone hunter, but they are far from the unkillable monsters of legend.”

Bruno rose partially to his feet, keeping his waist slightly bent. He peered intently at a patch of ground a half dozen feet from the bloody ruin of the deer. Turning back to Hector with a bright grin, he put one hand on his sword hilt.

“I have the trail,” he said “come, squire, it is time that you bagged your first dragon!”

** *

Blue eyes watching with open avarice, the robust man stared hard at Aven in her tavern maid disguise. She was busying herself with taking the empty crockery off one of the round tables, her bottom angled towards her admirer. The man slapped a sweaty palm around his mug handle, bringing the foamy liquid to his whiskered lips.

He was tall and wiry, years spent working in his fields having sculpted an impressive musculature. A head full of sandy blonde hair sat atop his head, nary a trace of a bald spot despite his having reached middle age. The simple garments he wore were a notch above the other denizens of Ravensford in quality, and he carried himself with an air of importance that seemed to belie his low station.

“Allison,” said the man, drawing the maid’s attention. When her green eyes were focused in his direction he spoke again “the mayor seems to have emptied his mug again.”

“Oh, Thurston,” she said chidingly “you know the only reason you were chosen as mayor is no one else wants to do the work!”

Thurston grinned, revealing a mouth full of yellow but straight teeth.

“Perhaps they choose me because they know I am capable of being so much more than just a simple farmer,” he said easily. “I understand you, my dear.”

Aven laughed, not bothering to keep her mocking tone to herself.

“Oh, do you?” she said, fixing him with a cold smile.

“Uh,” said Thurston, blanching a bit under her suddenly feral gaze “yes, I think I do. You are meant for much more than this simple life. You have ambition, much like myself.”

Aven leaned forward on the table, trying to stare down the mayor, though the pose made it all the easier for him to stare down her cleavage.

“And what are your ambitions?” she said flatly.

“To marry you, of course,” he said with an arrogant laugh “and to expand my civic knowledge so I may be called upon to serve my kingdom in more significant ways.”

“Ha,” said Aven “no doubt, they’ll crown you king in a fortnight!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said with a sneer “of course I don’t have such a lofty goal! The thing about Kings and nobles is, they still need bureaucrats and seneschals and treasurers....and those appointments are often given to people of low birth.”

“You got the low part right,” said Aven as she stood up, taking Thurston’s empty mug with her.

“Wait,” said the mayor, causing her to whip around in annoyance “you never told me your ambitions, my dear.”

“My ambitions?” said Aven, as if the idea had never occurred to her. “All I want is to find my niche and be happy.”

“You are foolish to spurn me so,” he called after her, his voice largely lost in the crowded common room. “Any maid in the village would say yes!”

“Then ask one of them, and spare me your endless prattle,” said Aven under her breath as she walked to one of the large barrels against the back wall. The angry way she turned the spigot caused a chuckle from Brutus.

“If you would just take a husband,” he said “men like Thurston would not bother you so!”

She made an irritated noise as she turned off the tap, a bit of foam spilling over the edge of the mug to spatter on the dusty floor.

“Is that all there is for a young woman?” she said “to be someone’s bride?”

Brutus shrugged.

“It is the way of things,” he said “the Allfather said that women were created second to serve man.”

Aven blew out an exasperated sigh and took Thurston his drink. His hand lingered upon her own as he counted out the coins, adding a bright silver bearing Drakken’s likeness.

“For you,” he said warmly, though his grip was so tight it was nearly painful.

“Thank you,” she said, extricating herself with some difficulty.

The Hammer was full, a few of the farmers even dragging in bales of hay to create makeshift seating. Voices raised in raucous laughter shook the wooden walls, making her yearn for the cool, quiet beauty of the forest. Reminding herself that human society was all she had left, she tried to smile and bear the rump smacks and lewd comments from the menfolk. Still, by the evening’s end she gratefully closed the door behind the last staggering patrons. Her deep sigh was greeted by an amused chortle from behind the bar.

“Why do men feel the need to drink themselves into a stupor every Endsweek?” she said with a pout.

“To keep us in business, of course,” said Brutus.

“It just seems so...” she said, hand grasping the empty air “excessive.”

Brutus nodded, turning a stool upside down on the bar.

“Being a farmer is a hard lot, Allison,” he said “especially when the king siphons so much of your labors away via the taxman! Drinking helps them to feel better about their lot, and where’s the harm in that?”

Aven chewed her lip, hands holding a broom motionless.

“The harm,” she said carefully “comes when they sober up, and their lot has not improved at all.”

“Bah!” said Brutus, a rare scowl crossing his face “the fact is, most folk cannot fight their destiny. One needs to be a noble, or a wizard, or a great hero from legend to do so!”

“Legends,” said Aven under her breath “have their origins in reality.”

“What was that, my dear?” said Brutus.

“I said I am tired,” was the only reply that Aven made loud enough for him to hear.

Over an hour later, the door to the Hammer opened up and Aven stepped into the humid night air. Brutus had offered, as he always did, a room gratis, but Aven declined as she always did. Pulling a shawl over her head despite the warm weather, she began to head for the edge of town. Ravensford was too small to warrant more than a single watchman on duty at a time, and Aven rolled her eyes as she passed the man slumbering at his station.

Soon she was marching along the dirt road, silvery moonlight bathing her lithe form. She was just about to turn off the road and enter the forest she called home when a rustling of leaves drew her attention. She stopped dead in her tracks as Thurston came sauntering out of the brush, flanked by two burly men she knew to be his cousins.

“Mayor Thurston,” she said nervously, eyes flicking back and forth between him and his fellows. “What are you doing at this late hour?”

He sneered, a sinister light in his eyes. The hairy, toothless men acting on his accord laughed with dark mirth.

“Did you think I would allow you to mock me?” he said harshly.

“I think,” said Aven, her green eyes growing narrow “that you are drunk, and need to go home and sleep it off.”

She began to backpedal, kicking up dust in her wake. The men followed, Thurston’s cousins moving to cut off her escape. Aven’s hand dropped to her thigh, where she felt the handle of the small knife she kept sheathed on her leg.

“I am warning you,” she said “I shall scream!”

“Go ahead, love,” said one of the grotesque men “we made sure old Pete is so drunk a dragon’s roar could not wake him!”

Aven silently cursed, realizing that she would have to expose her true form in order to escape. She was loathe to do so, having spent nearly a year gaining the trust of the seclusive rural folk. However, neither was she keen on rapine, and if it came to a choice she knew which consequence she would prefer.

“Pardon me,” came a melodious, cheery voice from the darkness. All four sets of eyes flashed towards the speaker as he stepped out into a patch of moonlight. “Do you think it’s appropriate for you to be carrying on at this late hour?”

Thurston blinked, his mead soaked brain trying to remember where he’d met the stranger. His eyes narrowed when he recognized the village’s new priest, Cornelius.

“Go home, father,” he said harshly “I run this town. Everyone and everything in it belong to me.”

Crown chuckled as he approached them, one hand stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“That hardly seems accurate,” he said. He looked past Thurston to Aven’s green eyes. “Would you like for me to walk you home, my dear?”

“I would welcome the company,” said Aven, smiling gratefully.

“She’s not going anywhere,” said Thurston, daring to put his hand upon the priest’s shoulder.

“Thirsty,” said one of the toothless men with trepidation “he’s a priest!”

“Yes,” said Crown, looking down at the hand and smiling “I am a priest. Do what you will, but know that the Allfather’s eye stares down upon you in judgment!”

“Let’s go, cousin,” said the other behemoth, dragging Thurston away by the collar.

“This is not over,” said Thurston, glaring hard at the pair as he was pulled from the scene.

“You are leaving, we are unharmed,” said Crown “it certainly seems over to me.”

Aven laughed as the trio disappeared down the dark road, heading towards the village.

“Thank you, Father,” she said.

“Not a problem...” said Crown, lips pursed thoughtfully “...Allison, was it?”

“Indeed,” said Aven, offering a little curtsy. “I thank you again, but I will be alright from here.”

“Are you certain?” said Crown, clasping his hands and smiling.

“Absolutely,” she said “long have I lived in these woods, and the only animal I fear walks upon two legs and not four.”

“Then go with the Allfather, my dear,” he said, making a sign in the air.

“What a kindly man,” said Aven as she began following the narrow game trail that lead deep into the forest. Crown watched the patch of brush she vanished into for a long time, a bemused smile on his face.

“What an interesting young woman,” he said with a grin.